


Chopin and Liszt; Let me help you

by AceOfShipping



Category: 19th Century CE RPF
Genre: Liszt taking care of Chopin, M/M, Sweet Fluff, pure fluff, sfw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2018-08-29 20:46:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8504809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfShipping/pseuds/AceOfShipping
Summary: Just sweet scenes between Chopin and Liszt, pure and without sin, and the tale of how they tried to help each other, but could never quite do enough.Based on requests from Tumblr.





	1. I Will Not Let You Fall

”You’re going to work yourself to death, Frédéric.” Liszt’s deep voice sounded from a place right beside Chopin, and the Pole started, having to support himself against the wall a moment later as he was overcome with dizziness. Liszt sighed at the sight of the pale, sickly man, who had just completed a private concert, with twelve encores, even though he should not be working. Liszt was no stranger to the need for music, the need for working, and the need to share it, but this was way beyond unhealthy. This was obsessive, dangerous. He reached out, and Chopin was too weak to not wish for the firm, steadying embrace that the Hungarian offered.

“I hate you, Franz.” Chopin whispered against the warm skin of Liszt’s neck, feeling the man tense for a moment at the words. But they were not meant, both of them knew that, but they held on to them out of principle. It had been those words between them for years and years, and neither of them could bear to openly admit that it had changed. Not in their words, anyhow.

Liszt sighed and wrapped his arms around the Pole, noticing how he was shivering slightly, “I know, I know. I know.” He tilted his head at an awkward angle to press his lips to Chopin’s forehead. He frowned at how warm the man had gotten, the fever was clearly raging beneath his skin, and it worried Liszt beyond what it should. Beyond what it ought to. “Let me help y-“

“No!” Chopin stepped away, too rapidly for his own good, “No, no, I’m fine, I’m fine.” His voice was weak, and Liszt could see it in his face a moment before he collapsed. The moment’s worth of warning gave Liszt time enough to step forward and catch the falling man, heaving him into his arms. Chopin was getting dangerously light, light enough for Liszt to lift him without much trouble. The Pole wrapped his arms around Liszt’s neck, holding on to him like his life depended on it.

Holding Chopin close, Liszt looked down at the man and sighed, “Please, Frédéric, let me help you.” The Hungarian’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle, caring. Worried. Chopin looked down, his eyes keeping their gaze to Liszt’s chest, fascinated, it seemed, for a moment by the man’s steady breath. Then he finally nodded. Liszt wasted no time. He carried Chopin out to the foyer, got the man’s overcoat, covered him with it and carried him home, careful to remain unseen. People would always assume the worst when they saw two men alongside one another like this.

He went to the closest of their homes. His own home.

Somewhere along the way, Chopin fell asleep in Liszt’s arms, his hand entangled in the Hungarian’s coat. With some maneuvering, he managed to open the door, and close and lock it behind them, and get the sleeping Pole upstairs, and placed safely into his bed. He gently untangled the hand from his coat, slipped the man’s shoes and concert jacket off, and draped the covers over him.

With a sigh, Liszt sat down on the bedside, reaching out to carefully brush a stand of black hair away from his face, his fingertips brushing over the pale skin in a tentative caress. Liszt bent down, daring to press a gentle kiss to Chopin’s lips. He was worried, of course he was, the man had been growing more and more sickly for far too long now. He refused to take care of himself, and had only recently begun to allow Liszt to take care of him. Something Liszt did diligently and without fail, because…

“I love you…” He whispered against the Pole’s soft lips. The man stirred, but did not wake.


	2. Come With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since I just found out that Chopin and Liszt actually were flatmates for a time, how could I not include this? There will be more chapters in due course, but with Uni in the way, they will be sporadic at best.

Concert halls were damned hot, the air humid and the people… well, there were very many of them, which in itself was a wonderful thing, but there was only so much air to be breathed in one room and he needed most of it himself. He had kept himself upright for the curtain calls while the roses rained upon him from the ladies in attendance, meaning the majority of the audience. But now, he stumbled down from the steps backstage, panting and exhausted, his long hair wet with the sweat of his exertions on the stage. He had pleased his audience, and his wallet too no doubt, but he had also given everything he had in him.

Briefly, he saw a flickering shadow out of the corner of his eye.

“Trying to vanish unseen again, Chopin Úr?”

The shadow stopped.

“Trying to brutally murder another piano, Panie Liszt?”

“Ah, but I asked you a question first.” Liszt steps towards the shadow, his legs weak after the extended period of sitting down, and his body feeling completely done in. Anyone who said musicians didn’t work had never sat through hours in the spotlight themselves, “And I believe I am entitled to an answer. How many times does this make? Twelve?”

Chopin, because it really was him, as Liszt could see when he came closer – not that he was ever in doubt, frowned and pressed his lips together. The Pole was reluctant to answer, and it was not as though they both didn’t know why. When he continued to not answer as Liszt came closer, there was nothing for it. 

Liszt came too close. He saw it.

Slowly, so as to not distress the other man, he reached up to caress his cheek. It was just a small brush of the tips of his fingers, just feeling. The other man had become so thin – too thin – and it disturbed Liszt to no end. “So pale…” He whispered.

“Don’t touch me.” Said Chopin, but he did not move away. And Liszt did not obey him. Rather, his other hand reached up, until he was cupping both sides of Chopin’s face, in a gentle but firm caress. The Pole sighed, and, against his own original intentions, could not help but lean into the touch. 

For several long moments, there were no words between them, just a pregnant silence, but then Liszt leaned in close, and pressed his forehead carefully to Chopin’s, bringing them close. Their breaths intermingled, and for both men it felt like they were drawn to the other, like a magnet to its partner, but they both knew they could never give in. Chopin’s delicate brows were tensed, his expression pinched as if he was a man in pain.

But, really, he was a man in longing.

“Let me take you home, Frédéric, please.” It was Liszt who broke the silence first, and the use of his first name had Chopin suddenly jolted awake from his strange trance. He took a quick step back, but Liszt caught his hands and looked at him with such urgency, and he could not refuse. A deep sigh escaped the Pole, and his lips curled in the slightest, gentlest little smile. Unintended, of course.

At this point, Liszt would take anything he was given with gladness, and this, too, was gratefully received. It was the first proper smile, one that wasn’t calculated, or pretended, that he had been gifted by this man. “I suppose, if you insist…” The words were hesitant, but the fact that Chopin was saying them in the first place was a miracle in and of itself, so Liszt did not wait to obey them. 

Once wined and dined, the Pole looked better. Sitting by Liszt’s piano, because, as Chopin had said, “This is probably the only time in its life that it shall be treated gently.”

And he played, and Liszt was a lost man. Sitting in his own armchair, with a glass of red wine, chin rested against his hand. He was lost in the music, in the way Chopin’s lithe fingers danced across the keys, how his face relaxed and became smooth, his deep-set eyes closing as he played by instinct and inspiration alone. It was godly. It was unplanned. Chopin was experimenting with the notes and the harmonies, like it took no effort at all, not even playing by a piece, just playing.

“You fit so well in my rooms, one might think you belonged there.” The words escaped him without much warning, and certainly without thought, and cold dread immediately rushed through him. Surely, it was too much to say at such a time, surely the Pole would get up, and leave him without a word. 

Chopin stopped playing. But he did not leave, he stayed where he was, his hands on his thighs, and thought. Then, he turned to sit sideways on the piano bench, and looked straight at Liszt.

“You know, I do rather find my own rooms cramped.” Without blinking, he continued, “Perhaps yours would suit me better.”


End file.
